Читать книгу Broken Barrier - Grace Helen Mowat - Страница 9

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That evening while Lydia sat in the kitchen reading Middlemarch, her attention was arrested by the distant music of a violin. The sound seemed to come from the living-room. She looked into the library, but the master was not there. He must be in the living-room, playing the violin. What was it that he was playing? Something familiar. She opened the dining-room door and listened. She recognized it now—Beethoven’s Minuet. She remembered learning it and proudly playing it once at a school recital. She wished she could go in and play the accompaniment for him, but that, of course, would be quite out of keeping with her part of Susan the maid.

As the plaintive notes rose and fell, softened by distance, she considered the strange barrier that existed between herself and this man who played them. The barrier of servitude that was forever insurmountable, even though they should live for years under the same roof. Behind this barrier she had voluntarily placed herself. She did not wish to break it, nor did she at all resent it. In fact, she intended to keep it impenetrable as long as she stayed there. This man, Maggie had said, was “a gentleman of the old school”. She instinctively knew that he was. Her old grandfather had been a gentleman of a still older school, influenced by Victorian standards and comfortable and complacent class distinctions which were rarely questioned or disturbed, like the life of the English country gentry as described in Middlemarch. That way of life was passing in England. It was passing at home, too.

It set her thinking, and remembering stories told of Fredericton in the old days.

She loved Fredericton. She had gone to college there. A beautiful little city set, like a gem, on a wide river, a city of quiet homes with lawns and flower gardens, and no skyscrapers or large factories or street cars or hurrying crowds. There was the Parliament building and the college above on a wooded hill, and old Government House, and the Cathedral where chimes rang for Evensong out over the great elm trees to the river bank.

Fredericton, in days gone by, had been a garrison town. Gay English officers had been stationed there, and there had been elaborate entertainment and ceremony, and social standards brought from the Old World, strangely incongruous in that new land so lately hewn from the primeval forests.

Her grandfather, in reminiscent mood, had told of parties at Government House, of footmen in livery and the large ball room with crystal chandeliers suspended from the ceiling. There, dignified dowagers sat on frail little gilded chairs upholstered in crimson brocade and watched the dancers. Great men had been entertained there in days before Confederation. Even Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, had danced in that ballroom when a young man.

Fredericton and home seemed very far away now. Here she was, sitting in the pantry, on the other side of the social barrier, acting the part of Susan the maid!

After all, it was an adventure and good fun. She thought she would like to write a story about it—a human interest story with a touch of philosophy. Whence this barrier, and why? She would wait till some day, when at home the winter storms were whirling around the old house, blocking the country roads. In that white isolation she would see these things in perspective. It would be easy to write then.

But now she must play the role of servitude, never betray herself, never break through the barrier till the day came when she could lay aside her white apron and go off the stage.

In the dimly lighted pantry, Lydia’s knitting became involved; the yarn was in a snarl, and, endeavouring to untangle it, she failed to note that the strains of the minuet had ceased and the master had returned to the library. He sat down by the fire and lighted his pipe. He always wore a black velvet smoking-jacket in the evening. This, with his finely cut features and iron-grey hair, gave him the distinguished appearance of an old painting. Lydia, peering through the slide, thought what an air of mystery there was about the man. It fascinated her. Then she noticed a strange thing. Instead of taking up his book, as she expected him to do, he took from his vest pocket a small red case, unclasped it, and looked intently at the contents for a long time.

As he moved the case in his hand she thought she caught a glint of light as though it contained some glass object. What in the world could he be looking at with that rapt expression on his face? She wondered if he were a crystal-gazer. Could that little red case contain a diminutive crystal sphere that foretold events to come? She hoped that he would leave it on the table so that she could examine it when she dusted the library. But he did not do that. He closed the clasp and put the case back in his pocket.

Suddenly she realized what she was doing and hurriedly closed the slide with a feeling of guilt and hastened back to the kitchen. She had been eavesdropping! What right had she to sit watching her master when he was wholly unconscious of her presence? She could at least retain the instincts of good breeding even if she was taking the part of Susan the maid. She was thoroughly shocked at herself.

The incident, however, made a strange impression on her, it was so mysterious. She felt as though she were entering haunted ground when she went into the library that night.

The master, however, looked up at her with something akin to a smile, which illuminated his usually serious face and accented the youthful look that contrasted so strangely with his silver hair.

“I went to call on the bride this afternoon,” he said.

“Maggie? I’m sure that would please her.”

“Yes, I believe it did. She wants you to go to see her. She told me to tell you.”

“Thank you, sir. I would like to go.”

“How is Middlemarch getting on?” he inquired.

“I am just in the middle of it. I find it very interesting.”

“I have not read it for years,” he said, “but it is a good story. If I remember rightly, the heroine was rather a fool.”

“She would be considered impossible in this age, but, at that time and with the kind of life she led, I can understand her. What I like best about the book is the true picture it gives of English country life in those days. It is all told just as George Eliot knew it, not as someone of the present day imagines it might have been.”

“You will get that same thing at another angle in Jane Austen, I believe.”

“Then I will try her next, if I may take another book.”

“Certainly, take any book you like.”

“Thank you, sir.” She turned and went back to the kitchen, her little white apron disappearing into the darkness, like a white butterfly, he thought, as he watched her.

An unusually intelligent girl, he reflected, and he liked the slightly unfamiliar intonation of her voice. Perhaps he might guide her reading a bit. He would let her go on with the old novelists for a time and then try her on something else, like biography, or even poetry. He wondered what Maggie would think of it. Some day he would tell her, just for fun.

After he had gone out the next morning, Lydia found the music for Beethoven’s minuet still on the piano. She sat down and played it through. It is a lovely thing, she thought, and he plays it very well. I wish I could play it with him.

That afternoon she went to see Maggie and was given cake and wine, and the silver tea service was displayed. Maggie told her all about the master’s visit. It had made her very happy.

“I was afraid he’d never have nothing to do with me ever again,” she confessed. “He was so set against me leaving him.”

“I’m sure he thinks a lot of you, Maggie. I don’t blame him for feeling badly when you left. I try to do everything that I can, but it doesn’t make up for you.”

“If you ask me, I’d say we were lucky to find you. That Jenkins wanted to leave out the piece about coming from the Provinces, when we was writing the advertisement. Now I hope he knows I’m always right about things.”

To avoid being questioned further about her home, Lydia changed the subject by asking for instructions about some household matters that had bothered her. She would have liked to ask about the little red case and the crystal, but felt it would be prying into the master’s personal affairs. It certainly was none of her business.

The same thing happened a few days later. She had left the slide open in the pantry, hoping he would again practise the minuet, but, as she found out afterwards, he played only on Sundays. Having finished Middlemarch, she prepared the cocoa and, while it was still heating, she went into the dining-room to get a tray cloth from the sideboard drawer. She had no intention of eavesdropping, though it was her custom to move quietly about the house. Turning from the sideboard to go back to the kitchen, she caught sight of the master in his usual place by the fire, his gaze fixed on the contents of the little red case. It was uncanny. She felt this the more because she spent so many hours alone in the house that still seemed dominated by the sweet-faced lady in the photograph. There was an atmosphere of the past about everything and here was another mystery.

When she took the tray in, he was again reading.

“I have finished Middlemarch,” she said shyly, placing the tray beside him.

“Have you?” he said, looking up. “It did not take you long.”

“I read very quickly.”

“I wish I could,” he said. “I read rather slowly.”

“Perhaps you remember better what you read.”

“I don’t believe it makes any difference. What book would you like now?”

“I want to read more of George Eliot, but, for a change, I would like to try Jane Austen.”

“Jane is the wittier of the two, and they both have a penetrating insight into human nature, but George Eliot has greater depths and wonderful descriptive powers.” He got up and went over to the bookshelf. “I believe Pride and Prejudice is supposed to be the best. You had better begin on that,” he said, handing it to her.

“Thank you, sir,” she said and vanished into the dark dining-room.

Trancher drank the cocoa and lighted his pipe. It was interesting to bring out these old books again. It brought back days of school and college and Donald. Few people read Jane Austen now. Maggie was right; they went to the movies instead and never knew what they missed. He resolved to try some literary experiments with this little white butterfly, who had flown in from a farm on some far-off river. It would be amusing to lead her on to greater heights and see how she responded.

When, next evening, he told Lydia something of this plan, she was as delighted as though she had never graduated from college with honors in English. It would be better than college—plenty of books, plenty of time, and a master-mind to guide her. Only she must carefully conceal any trace of those college courses! She wished he would start calling her Susan, which he had not done so far; it would remind her to keep in her place and avoid any unintentional slip. As Susan she would be so completely somebody else.

She even reminded him of it once when he called her Lydia. He explained that he heard Maggie calling her Lydia.

“It seems to suit you better,” he said. “I believe people grow to look like their names—and you are not my idea of a Susan!”

He looked at her rather critically, and for the first time noticed the clear transparency of her complexion and the pretty waves of dark hair neatly brushed back from her face, but with little tendrils that escaped, softening the more severe outline. Her eyes were almost too large for the delicate features, yet they were beautiful and expressive; blue eyes, like the colour of woodland violets.

“No,” he said slowly, “you could never be called Susan.”

The days passed with astonishing swiftness. Autumn faded. It was nearing Christmas. Lydia thought of home and the autumn that had passed, the scarlet and amber maples, the glory of the harvest, the first snow, the frosty sun rising red above dark fir trees. The River would be frozen now and everyone out on skates. Some day she would go back to it again.

She was not unhappy in her work. She had arranged a methodical system for each day. She kept the house immaculate and enjoyed planning and preparing tasty dinners for the master. When she felt the need of someone to talk to, she could always go to see Maggie. The daily walk to and from the market provided air and exercise. There was plenty to do, but her time was her own.

The crowning moment of the day, however, came at ten o’clock each evening when she took in the cocoa and Trancher talked to her about books, sometimes reading to her passages that he had enjoyed in his own reading. His wide knowledge of English literature amazed her. It was more helpful than college had ever been; besides, she was older now and more appreciative.

Sometimes, on Sundays, when the weather was mild, Trancher would go off for the day. He had a taste for old burying-grounds and old church records. He was making out a family tree and some of the branches were missing. Maggie told her about this, remarking that “The master don’t take much stock in his relations while they’re alive. When he gets them underground, that’s how he likes them. Morbid, I call it.”

On these occasions Lydia was free for the day. She would go to church in the morning when the familiar ritual of the Anglican service seemed to bring her nearer to home. One Sunday afternoon she went to the city to visit the Metropolitan Museum.

For the first time in her life she saw the original paintings of the old masters, and relics of tribes and nations that had existed long before the Christian era, Egypt and Assyria, Greece, and Rome.

She returned bubbling with enthusiasm. In the evening she could not help telling Trancher about it. She stood in the doorway, a charming study in black and white, with her thick, dark hair framing her glowing young face—an ethereal little person, he thought.

“How do you happen to know so much about the ancients?” he asked.

“I don’t know, that’s the worst of it!” she said. “I thought you might have some books that would help me to know more about them.”

“I will see what I can find,” he said.

“Tomorrow will do. Drink your cocoa now or it will get cold.” She was learning to admonish him as Maggie had done.

Trancher picked up the cup obediently, but asked another question, fearing that the butterfly was about to take flight.

“Did you ever hear of a poet named Matthew Arnold, Lydia?”

“I think I have,” she replied vaguely.

He put down the cup and went to the bookcase, taking down a volume of Arnold’s poems.

“This is the only thing that comes to my mind at the moment. There are two poems in this,” he said, turning over the leaves. “Try Sohrab and Rustum, or, better still, the Sick King of Bokhara. Read that one first, it is beautiful flowing verse and not very long. It won’t tell you much, but you will get the wonderful atmosphere of ancient Persia. Those are the only two poems in the book that deal with ancient Persia.”

He handed it to her and she turned to go. He detained her, saying, “I think I have a book more like what you want. I used to have a history of Egypt under the Pharaohs. I will find it for you.”

“I should love to see it,” Lydia said as she flitted out.

She has a wonderfully receptive mind, Trancher thought, as he picked up the neglected cup. I wonder what she will make of Matthew Arnold. I believe I would have been a success as a college professor.